Mr. Dennison fetchedCaroline for a ride in Hyde Park the following morning. She wore a thick pelisse and kid gloves. Her hair was secured beneath her bonnet, a new spray of light pink silk roses attached to the brim just last night to make it appear fresh. It would pair well with her wind-pinked cheeks, or so she hoped.
“I wanted to show you how well this new pair is getting on,” Mr. Dennison said, holding the reins with one expert hand.
Caroline glanced at the horses he referred to, unable to see any difference between now and the last time she had ridden out with him weeks ago. They still looked brown and pulled the phaeton as directed.
“They seem very…obedient.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Dennison said with feeling. “Prime steppers.”
Caroline had nothing to say to this. But she quickly found that if she refrained from speaking, Mr. Dennison would fill the silence with talk of his horses. It lulled her back into a sense of security with him. By the time they reached Hyde Park, he had told her about his regimented schedule, the groom he had been forced to dismiss because he was not following the appointed schedule exactly, and the new horse Mr. Dennison’s cousin had acquired that would make a decent stud.
The topic was tiring, but Caroline was proud of herself for suppressing at least three yawns over the course of the ride. Once they reached the park, she had hoped the others would distract him into a different topic of conversation.
It was not to be.
“Lady Gill believes her horses to be supreme, but the woman was tricked, if you ask me. Paid handsomely for a daft pair, she did.” He looked about. “But that stallion is prime flesh.”
Caroline fought a sigh. She looked at the horse he spoke of now and glanced up at the rider with a start. Tristan.
Mr. Dennison must have noticed the rider at the same time, because his words came to a sudden halt. He cleared his throat. “That is enough about horses. I must be boring you terribly.”
“No, truly, you are not.” A stretch of the truth, perhaps. She searched for something true to say. “There is something engaging about listening to someone talk about a matter they are passionate about.”
He smiled appreciatively. “What are you passionate about, Miss Whitby?”
She glanced again at Tristan as they approached. Heslowed his horse, but Mr. Dennison either did not notice or pretended not to see as he drove on by.
Caroline forced herself not to look at Tristan. What had Mr. Dennison asked her?
“Are you having trouble knowing what to say?” he asked.
“I enjoy reading. I’ve recently finished a book by the author ofEvelina. It is calledCeciliaand has been entertaining, since the character is attending the London Season as well.”
Mr. Dennison was quiet.
“Do you enjoy reading?” she asked.
“Oh, me? No. Notbooks, at least. I do know how to read, of course.”
“Of course.”
Silence sat between them for the length of the park, until it was time to turn the conveyance around and enjoy the park again or join the street traffic and return home. Mr. Dennison cast her a smile, directing his horses onto the road. “Thank you for riding out with me, Miss Whitby. That was pleasant.”
She exhaled with relief that he had chosen to take her home. “It was my pleasure.”
Chapter Eleven
Friday evening arrived swiftly, and Tristan had not spoken to Caroline since the day they had visited in her parlor. When he noticed her in Hyde Park, Dennison had pretended not to see him in order to keep Caroline to himself. The man was an infuriating puzzle. Did he wish to propose to her or not? The longer he waited to do so, the more hope Tristan held that he would choose to walk away.
Which was entirely unfair of him. Caroline had made it perfectly clear she was not interested in a relationship with him. Losing Dennison and becoming desperate wasn’t likely to send her crawling into Tristan’s arms.
He wanted her towantto be there. For her to think of kissing him as he had thought of kissing her.
Perhaps that was a better course of action. Show her how enjoyable it could be to marry him, how deeply he would cherish her. Precisely how he would hold her…
No, not that. Tristan would remain a gentleman, regardless of the temptation otherwise.
He glanced in the long mirror in his bedchamber andshifted the mask over his eyes. It was simple, plain and black, matching the black caped domino and wide hood. Surely he would blend into the crowd and the numerous other black dominos to be seen that evening. That was his hope, at least. He had told no one of his intent to attend the masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens except for James, who had decided to wear a similar costume and attend anonymously with him.
